The Last Daughter
Thomas E. Mahon
Copyright © 2012 Thomas E. Mahon
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblence to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE LAST DAUGHTER. Copyright 2012 by Thomas E. Mahon
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
FIRST EDITION
Cover artwork by Christian Klein
Various design concepts by Stephany Nezo
The Publisher makes no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. Neither the publisher nor author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any commercial damages.
2012-05-11
Dedication
For Jami
Foreword
Norman, Oklahoma Spring, 1979
Many of the diehard locals still remember it as the most horrific thunderstorm to ever hit Cleveland County. In fact, state weather records show the system slamming the county’s western edge at just after eight that morning, unleashing a frightening barrage of lightning and spawning three tornados. Warner High School was caught in the crosshairs. A twister came within a hundred feet of the baseball field, then retreated back into the sky as if yanked up by an angry and capricious god.
Karen Reynolds, who was teaching Honors English for the first time in her young career, witnessed the tail-end of the twister from her upstairs classroom. Fortunately, her students were facing in the opposite direction, so she did the smart thing by keeping her mouth shut. Why create total and complete pandemonium? Hell, these kids were already off the wall as it was. Stealing nervous glances out the window, she scrambled to pass out her class set of Golding’s Lord of the Flies. Today was the day, she thought to herself. The day they would finally cover the chapter all American high school students shamelessly anticipate. The chapter where—
“Piggy eats it today, doesn’t he?” inquired Phoebe Nichols.
Reynolds plopped down a stack of novels in front of the girl and asked her to pass them back. She regarded Nichols. “You mean dies?”
“Head cracks open like a fresh coconut,” added Mike Cochran, sitting in the next row over. “I heard green stuff oozes out of the fat kid’s head.”
“It’s yellow,” countered Jimmy Evans from across the room. “My sister read the book last year.”
Reynolds finished distributing the novels. “Yellow brains. Green brains.” She marched back to the front of the room. “Let’s read and find out, shall we?” She snapped her fingers and raised her voice, “Alright, find chapter eleven, people. I believe it’s page number…”
The PA speaker crackled.
“Mrs. Reynolds,” boomed the authoritative voice.
It was the principal. The first time he’d called in all year. Reynolds hesitated.
“Yes, sir.”
“Please send Alex down to Guidance immediately. They’re waiting for him.”
The teacher located the tall, thin boy in the back row. He rose slowly from his desk, and shuffled up the center aisle. Alex was new to the school. Withdrawn but certainly not lacking in confidence, she thought. True, he had yet to say a word since his transfer into her class, but Reynolds could tell he was on the verge of becoming comfortable enough to speak. He just hadn’t found his voice yet—not entirely surprising, given the fact that this was a new environment for the boy. “You’ll need… a pass,” she muttered, watching him curiously from the lectern. The rest of the class watched, too.
The boy paused, then turned and accepted the pass from Reynolds. “By the way, it’s red,” he mumbled.
My God, he speaks.
Karen Reynolds frowned. “Beg your pardon? What’s red?”
“The goop that spills out of Piggy’s head. The book describes it as red.” The class fell completely silent and still. “Hope you don’t mind me borrowing the book from the library and reading ahead.”
Alex dropped his gaze and turned to leave.
Reynolds watched him shuffle off. “No. I don’t…”
But the boy was already out the door and heading up the hallway.
Alex emerged from Quad A, sloshed across the empty courtyard and into the adjacent building. The door groaned and slammed shut behind him; the reverberating echo lingered for only a moment. He paused to shake the water from his hair, and he wiped his face with his sleeve.
A rotund figure, one of the two deans employed by the school, stepped from a nearby doorway. “Hall pass,” he grunted.
The young man relinquished his yellow slip of paper.
“Allan?” he said, squinting at the pass. “Can’t find my damn glasses.”
“Alex, sir. I’m looking for the guidance offices in Edwards Hall.”
“Well, this is Edwards.” The man’s stare lingered. He finally nodded to his left. “End of the hall, make a right. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you very much.”
“Hey, Alex,” he said, returning the pass.
“Yes, sir?”
“Unlike most of the goons we have around here, you’ve got manners. I’m fairly impressed.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
Alex signed in at the front desk to Guidance. He nodded to the secretary as he took a seat in the small waiting area. Four wooden chairs faced an elongated table on which were arranged several college bulletins from various prestigious schools. At length, he stood and approached the secretary’s desk. He followed the petite woman’s fingers as she pecked away at the Selectric in front of her. “Excuse me,” he said, pulling a book from beneath his damp shirt.
The secretary glanced up. Her fingers curled back and hovered over the keyboard.
“I know your son plays for the local soccer club. I thought he’d enjoy this.”
She scrutinized the book’s cover. The Extraordinary Pelé it read. The secretary glanced up at Alex and then back to the book. She paused. “Thank you. It’s Alex, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How did you know my son played soccer?”
“I overheard you talking to one of the teachers in the hallway on Tuesday. Hope you don’t mind. Consider it a gift. This is just my way of thanking you for helping to make my transition here a smooth one.”
The secretary studied the young man, finally taking the book from him. “Kiddo, you are definitely not from around here.”
“Is that Alex?” a voice barked from the inner office. It was the campus psychologist. “Get in here, son.”
The boy turned, wrung his hands together, and inhaled deeply.
“Good luck,” whispered the secretary.
Thank you, he mouthed back to her.
Alex sat, staring at his hands, while the campus psychologist rifled through his file. He